


Sweet Bitter Love

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Crying, Hair Washing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Shower Sex, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 20:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: “I'm, I didn't mean it to go on this long,” James says,Jamessays, but Steve... “I should have told you but I-” The silence hangs between them. “I was scared you...would...”“Yeah,” Steve says.James must have been scared he'd do exactly this





	Sweet Bitter Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you very much to everybody who's made it this far! This 'episode' however contained an important piece of character development and, depending on your views about my little 'verse, that development might be divisive. Here's why I did it - one of the many things I love about the canon characters of Steve and Bucky are that they're each part of the other. Steve wouldn't be Steve without Bucky. Bucky wouldn't be Bucky without Steve. So one of the things I find really difficult to reconcile, with some AUs, is that Steve could be Steve without that formative relationship in his just-as-formative years with the Best Friend he couldn't be separated from.
> 
> Hopefully my solution makes sense but, if you don't continue reading after this, thank you for coming this far and giving me a shot!
> 
>  **Spoiler alert:** If you'd like to know the dates in this series, here's [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) of the first ten parts, with a short summary of each part. **Spoilers for parts 1-10, though.**

When James wakes, the first thing he notices is that there's not much light. Either Steve's asked Jarvis to black out the windows, or they're blacked out because it's dark outside, but the only light in the room comes from a strip of light that's above the headboard, and it means that everything in the room is just about visible from the warm glow, but the light isn't intrusive. 

In fact, James wouldn't have known there was a light on at all if he hadn't opened his eyes to see why things were so dark.

He is now, much to his enjoyment, pressed right up against Steve's body, Steve's arm around him, so that James' head is pillowed on one of Steve's broad pectorals, his hand resting on Steve's abs. They're firm and well-defined and James would absolutely get his mouth on Steve were it not for the fact that Steve's asleep, and James isn't sure how well that would go down. It'd probably be fine, but he doesn't want to do anything without knowing for certain.

It also gives him the opportunity to do something he hasn't had the chance for yet – he can watch Steve sleep. If he can lift his head slowly enough, that is, and he does, but makes sure to take a really, really long time to do it so he doesn't wake, y'know, the literal supersoldier whose day job is being alert at all times.

And Steve is...

James remembers looking at photographs of Steve, of when Steve was only a little older than James is now. Strong-jawed, smooth-skinned, blond and blue-eyed and there were so many pictures of him back then, so many candid photographs of him running miles and miles every morning with his teeth clenched and his mouth closed, of him squinting at oranges and bananas at farmers' markets, of him standing on stages and waiting at subway stops and everything from TV and magazine interviews to everyday errands and really, _really_ dumbass shots in the middle of fights, like who even does that? Risks their life to take a photo of a dude who then has to come and risk his life to keep you safe.

But the point is that James has never seen a photograph that shows this, and he's spent a long time fantasising. Steve's eyelashes are longer than James used to imagine they'd be, his nose a little more crooked. The shadow on his jaw is growing while he sleeps and, not for the first time, James is captivated by how human he is. 

He's got the abs and the pecs, and James used to imagine how he'd look in underwear ads or cologne campaigns, or if he was the new Coca Cola guy and he had to like, swoop in and save some poor, terrified citizen from-

Okay, save _James_ from aliens, but who's counting? 

But there's so much more for James to be arrested by - Steve's collarbones are sharp and the skin over them is smooth, there are freckles on his shoulders and birthmarks on his neck and face. James can't get over being close enough to see each individual hair in his eyebrows, each pore on his cheek. His lashes are so long and his lips are so soft, and James knows it's the serum that regenerates his body, knows it's the serum that keeps his skin unblemished and his lips so smooth but he's so...

People have written articles about golden ratios and how they apply to Steve Rogers, and in this kind of low, warm light, he looks like the cover of a romance novel, he looks like an alabaster statue in candlelight, he looks like every fantasy James has ever had. James cannot believe how lucky he is.

And he desperately wants to touch. He loves the sex, of course he does. And he loves that Steve isn't – unlike some of the other partners James has had – too tired or too busy for sex. Even though they've only really spent a few days together, Steve hasn't been short on stamina (or anything else for that matter) but James...

James wants him. Always wants him, will probably always want him. But he also wants to touch.

He's never seen a body like Steve's before – few people have – and he wants to run the tips of his fingers over the healed break in Steve's nose, wants to fit his palms over the swell of Steve's pectorals, wants to follow the shape of Steve's calves with his hands and map the muscles of Steve's back with his mouth. He wants all of him, bar absolutely nothing. 

Steve makes a sound like someone releasing a breath they've been holding – it's not enough to be a sigh – but he doesn't wake. 

James watches him carefully and stays still for a long few seconds, but Steve doesn't do anything else, and so James chews his lip and think about this for a moment. It's...

James would happily sit and watch this forever. Not even kidding – Steve is so beautiful that just looking at him feels like a reward but, on top of that, James can feel the warmth of him, James can smell how he smells, feels how he feels. James is resting on Steve, so James' _whole body_ moves as Steve breathes. It certainly feels like the privilege James knows it to be.

He thinks about reaching out to feel that five o'clock shadow, considers brushing a strand of Steve's hair from where it hangs down across his forehead, but he must breathe differently or something, because Steve's eyes open.

In fact, they open so fast, James isn't even sure that he wasn't just lying still instead of sleeping, but he yawns a moment later.

“I wake you?” Steve ask, even though he clearly didn't, and James shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “Couldn't sleep.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “That tends to happen when I make you go to sleep at seven p.m. You wanna go back to sleep?”

James moves up against him, presses his body to Steve's and watches Steve's slow smile.

“No,” James says.

Steve chuckles, glances over to the nightstand where the clock sits.

“Really,” he says. “Color me surprised. How are you feeling?”

James smiles even though he blushes, bites his bottom lip and watches Steve's eyes track the movement. He presses himself a little closer.

“Pretty good,” he says, by which he means fairly wibbly and very happy about it. “Why, how are _you_ feeling?”

Steve snorts.

“Wanna come take a shower with me?” he says, and James suppresses a shiver at the thought.

“You gonna make sure I'm squeaky clean?” 

Steve looks at him for a long few seconds.

“I want to get my hands on you,” he answers instead. 

“Funny,” James tells him. “I was just thinkin' the same about you. Great minds think alike.”

“I'd say fools seldom differ except you're on a secret project at the age of twenty-one, so I guess that's told me. Come on, fellow genius.”

Steve starts to get up, and James follows him, and Steve takes his hand so they can pad across the carpet to the bathroom together.

“I'm gonna brush my teeth,” Steve says, and James is still very aware of how naked he is.

Steve, on the other hand, seems not even to have noticed – about either of them – wandering around, dick out, shoulders back, head high and walking casual as you like, and it occurs to James that it must not only come from age but also from those stories that get told a little more often now than they used to.

He's not sure he can ask about any of that, actually, given that there's nobody really left aside from Steve for whom World War 2 is in living memory. There might be one or two – ailing in nursing homes. But even the people born after the war have hit eighty now. Any man over the age of eighteen when the war had started in thirty-nine would be a hundred and three or four by now, at the very least.

There used to be ten or twelve, with fewer every year, but now James knows of only one who turns up to parades on Veterans Day every year. Steve pushes his wheelchair and stands by his side, and everyone who looks at them knows it won't be long until Steve stands alone.

First Avenger, Last of the Greatest Generation's fighters. 

James' heart aches just to think of it.

“Whassamatter, kid?” Steve says around his toothbrush, and James picks his own up to avoid talking about it. “You 'ook 'ike so'eone kicked your dog.”

James shakes his head and gets toothpaste on his brush, starts to imitate Steve. It's not until he looks at himself in the mirror over the sink that he realizes Steve's watching him instead of himself. Steve winks, and James shakes his head but finds himself smiling.

When Steve's done brushing his teeth, he goes over his face with his electric razor and then starts the shower, gets in. James, distracted because he's watching Steve, follows him maybe thirty seconds later, pulling out his hair tie and turning around to look at him and...

Steve's left the big glass doors open, and he's busy making sure his hair's wet, presumably so he can start washing, but it means that he's standing under the substantial spray of the impressive shower, water sluicing down every muscle James can see.

Steve's...not exactly aroused but that's still not the least-interested James has ever seen his dick. He can't really blame Steve – his own is starting to fill – but Steve's got both hands in his hair and his whole wet, naked body on display. James doubts exactly Not At All that Steve knows exactly what he's damn well doing, but it doesn't mean James isn't going to walk right into that particular setup.

Steve just leans back and shakes the water out of his hair, and then turns his head slowly and looks at James through half-closed eyes.

“You're lettin' the cold in,” he says. “Why don't you come warm up, huh?”

He reaches out for the showergel he has, and James moves as though he's being pulled along on a string – inexorable, unwavering, straight into Steve's arms. When Steve kisses him, it's under running water and one of his hands is cold, but James feels it warm a moment later, drawing big, smooth circles on his back, and the scent of Steve's showergel fills his nose. 

Steve lathers up the back of his neck while they kiss, his shoulderblades, his back, the small of his back, his ass with both hands. His fingers are big but slick and gentle in a way that would be surprising if James hadn't already spent a few days in his bed. 

Steve strokes between James' cheeks and over his hole and then uses both hands under James' ass to just hitch him up a little, slicking them together while he kisses the living daylights out of him. This, James thinks, is pretty much perfect. 

Steve's bathroom is pastel peach, with little gold accents on the tiles in places, and soft lighting up by the ceiling. His shower is one giant showerhead _or_ , which James didn't realize until he just saw Steve do it right now, a big one and three or four little ones. It's like being in a rainstorm, and James can feel the suds sliding down his back, can feel the way his hair sticks to his skull; he gets his arms over Steve's shoulders, stretches his whole body out under Steve's hands and gets one hand in Steve's hair, and Steve obliges his wordless request by covering as much of James' body as possible with his hands. 

He washes James' shoulders, brings his hands around James' body as he steps back just a little, and then James puts one hand out to steady himself as Steve washes his neck, his chest, his stomach, his dick and his balls, gets onto his knees to wash James' thighs front and back, and then stands again to kiss James like he'll never get another chance.

“Turn around,” Steve says, and James knows it's to wash his hair, but he still gets kind of weak in the knees as he complies.

Still, the thought cuddling the world's only supersoldier was nice – which it is – but getting his hair washed by him?

James doesn't try to stop the noise he makes – Steve's fingers are artist's fingers, of course, deft and careful, skilled at finding the right spot and expert at creating something incredible. In this case, the way the shiver runs the length of James' spine, the way he smiles because he can't help it, the way he hears his own voice echo off the tiles.

One of the shower heads must be detachable because, eventually, Steve washes the soap from James' hair. He conditions it, too, and works his fingers through the tangles, and then rinses the out as well, and James, if he squints, can see Steve's expression in the shaving mirror next to the sink. He's concentrating, but not hard, seemingly enjoying himself. 

James closes his eyes and lets Steve's fingers work their admirable magic, until he steps away.

“Done,” he says, and James turns to look at him just as Steve starts to gather soap in his own hands.

“Hey,” James says, a little indignantly, and Steve looks at him questioningly. “Isn't it my turn?” 

Steve's head lifts slowly, tilts as he doesn't-quite smile, and then he tips the showergel he's amassed in his palm into James' palm instead and watches James. 

This, actually, is just as much a treat as it is intimidating. James is a hundred percent sure that, given the choice, he'd spend all his free time moving his hands over Steve's body. Steve just waits to see what he'll do.

“Uh,” James says. “I mean, you...okay.”

Steve smiles.

“Want me to lift my arms?” he says.

James frowns.

“No,” he says. “I want you to put your arms out like this-” he demonstrates, arms out in a 'T' shape, “-and put your palms on the walls. The- The wall- The glass, and the wall.”

Steve does, but slowly, keeping his eyes on James, that small smile playing about his lips, and laughter in his eyes to boot. James looks him over once, and then takes a step forward, goes up onto his toes and kisses Steve before he pulls away.

“Okay,” he says, and then he starts spreading showergel all over Steve's impressively muscled chest, tags jingling as he brushes soap beneath them on their chain.

Steve just smiles and watches him, and James ignores being watched in favor of getting his hands all over golden skin and firm muscle. He starts at Steve's pecs because he loves them - he'd use his mouth if there weren't so much soap. He strokes the gel, now turning to lather, over one of Steve's pecs and then the other, between them and below them, and Steve takes a deep breath in through his nose, his chest expanding under James' hands.

James will probably keep going back to them actually, cups one in his palm and it doens't fit so he spreads his fingers, brushing them over Steve's nipple as he does. He spends a little time like that, soap-slick fingers over sensitive skin, and then he washes up and outward – it's not a wash, not really. He's not bathing Steve, he's just...feeling him up. And they both know it.

He follows the long lines of Steve's collarbones, pushes suds out over his right shoulder, bicep, gets to his elbow and watches the bubbles cling to the hairs on his forearm as he goes for Steve's wrist. Steve lets James take his hand off the glass to wash his fingers, turns his hand so James can wash his palm. Then James starts on his other arm and does exactly the same.

Once he's done, he goes back to Steve's pecs, molds his hands around them and then sweeps his hands down Steve's abdomen, taking an absolutely unnecessary amount of time on his abs. 

“You like the muscles, huh?”

James nods.

He uses them like a washboard, working up a lather against them to see if he can, and then he sets his hands over Steve's hips and strokes suds into the tapered vee of Steve's iliac crest, following it all the way down until he can fit his fingers around Steve's cock.

He's not hard, but he's starting to get that way, a little thicker in James' fingers with each passing second, and James bites his lip, looks up at Steve as he sinks down onto his knees. 

Steve drops his hand from the glass and threads it into James' hair instead – he'll get suds in it again but neither of them really care – looking down at him until James breaks eye contact. 

There's still too much soap for a blowjob, but there won't be once James rinses. For now, he focuses on his task, finding and soaping each muscle once he's learned the shape with his hands, and then sliding his hands inward, washing the insides of Steve's thighs, cradling his balls in one hand. Steve doesn't say anything but his cock keeps filling, and James slides his fingertips backward over Steve's perineum, up over his hole. 

Steve doesn't stop him, and it makes James bolder – he eases the tip of his finger just that little bit firmer against furled skin, just that little bit further. Steve lets him, doesn't say anything when the tip of James' finger slips into him, but that's all James wants for now anyhow. 

He lets go, draws his hands back and rinses them in the spray, gathers more soap from where it's starting to slide down Steve's thighs and washes his calves, his shins. Steve lifts each of his feet in turn so James can feel between his toes, and then James holds one hand out.

“Rinse,” he says, and Steve twists his torso back to grab the showerhead, hands it carefully to James.

James directs the spray at Steve's legs, does his stomach from where he kneels, too, but he spends far too long washing between Steve's legs, using the gentler setting on such vulnerable places. Most of the suds from Steve's upper body have slid down, so there's no need for James to stand and wash him off yet.

Instead, he cradles Steve's balls in his palm again and washes water over them because he can. This is different – Steve makes a sound then, low and soft and deep in his chest – and once he's done, James sets the showerhead on the floor and mouths at Steve's cock because it's right there in front of him. He just follows the length of it until he reaches the tip, and then he nuzzles at it as the head starts to peek out of the foreskin.

“I love this about you,” James says, tongue flickering out over the part of the head he can see.

Steve makes another soft noise, fingers moving in James' hair. 

“I like uncut,” he says. and Steve opens his mouth on a sharp breath.

James just sucks the tip for a while, enjoys the taste and the way Steve's breathing changes, the way his fingers shift on the back of James' skull, and he makes sure he's got both hands on the back of Steve's thighs to feel the muscle flex.

Steve gets hard pretty much as James sucks him, and he barely moves at all but James can feel the tension in him, the way he holds himself very, very still.

Once Steve's fully hard, James lets go of the back of Steve's thigh with one hand and, instead, reaches between his legs again, finds the soft, still-soapy pucker of skin and starts to rub over it, starts to ease his finger inside, and Steve moans loudly enough for James to really hear it this time.

“Yeah,” he whispers a moment later, and James starts to suck him in earnest then.

It doesn't take him as long as James expects, although his knees are starting to ache a little by the time Steve's breaths begin to hitch. He's intent on following through, actually, on continuing until Steve's done, but Steve lets go of his hair and pushes him back at the last second and James, worrying he might have misread some signals, pulls back, looks up, and-

“Oh, _oh,”_ Steve grits out, and comes across James' collarbone, his shoulder, eyes shut tight, his mouth open.

He grasps his cock with his free hand, the other one still on the wall for support, and James watches him as he squeezes the base way tighter than James would find enjoyable.

James is...a little disappointed? But it's nothing he won't get over.

“Sorry,” Steve says immediately, and James shakes his head as Steve's eyes open, rinses himself off with the showerhead.

“Why are you sorry?” he says.

Steve doesn't answer, he just shakes his head, closes his eyes again and starts trying to get his breath back. 

James gets back onto his feet, stretching his legs a little, mindful of his stiff knees, and then he points the shower spray at Steve's dick. It's still a little hard and he laughs as though he's being tickled, turns his body away from it.

James grins at him, goes to hook the showerhead back to the wall, and Steve just turns to lean against the tile, head back.

“I didn't wash your hair,” James says. 

Steve appears to think about this for a moment or two, and then he pushes himself off the wall, grabs the nearest bottle and gets some of whichever gel it is into his hands.

“You can do it now,” he says. “I'll make it easy for you.”

And the shoves the whole lot into his hair, rubs his fingers in it for maybe three seconds until it starts to foam, and then starts kissing his way down James' abdomen.

“What are you doing?” James asks, looking down at the top of Steve's soapy head.

Steve looks up, that wicked smile back in place.

“Isn't it my turn?” he asks.

***

They're neither of them tired after the shower, although James is quite content to not have any more sex for a little while. He doesn't necessarily _need_ the break, but he is a little hungry, and he gets into his pajamas as Steve gets into sweats and a tee, followed by a soft hoodie, so that they're not just wandering around in their bathrobes at whatever time it is now.

“Can I get you anything?” Steve asks, over by the refrigerator for the milk.

“Got any peanut butter?” James asks, and Steve nods.

“Yep,” he says. “Crunchy okay?”

“Yes!” James says, and holds out his hand when Steve pulls the jar out.

Steve looks at him, double-takes, and then pauses.

“You... _Just_ peanut butter?” Steve asks.

James blinks.

“Uh,” he says, but Steve laughs, hands him the jar and then looks for a spoon.

“Go right ahead,” he says. “It's not like I eat much anyway. I mainly use it for cooking.”

He finds a spoon, holds it out for James, and finds that James is struggling.

“Y'okay there, champ?” he says.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” James answers. “For some reason I can't open the jar that was sealed by a superhero. Whatever shall I do?”

Steve snorts and takes the jar from him, and James is struck by the difference in him then. He's dating Steve Rogers, but Steve Rogers wasn't always able to reach cupboards and open jars, and he wonders if the muscles comment Steve gave him in the shower has a little bit to do with that.

“Do you miss the old you?” James says, as Steve opens the jar for him.

“Actually,” Steve says, handing it back, “I've been like this for fifteen years. It'll be half my life when I hit fifty, or thereabouts, more thereafter. Until then, however,” and he turns, smiles, “you're talking about _regular_ me. I miss...” 

There's a moment where his gaze turns distant, where James can see him thinking about the past and how to phrase it. 

“Well, I don't miss the pain. The chronic illness, the asthma, those terrible things my body had to deal with. But being able to blend into a crowd? Being able to fit under somebody's arm?” He rolls one shoulder in a shrug. “Even though it was shitty, I had a place in the world that was my own,” he says. “It's not nearly so hard now but, when I first arrived in this century, my personality – my actual personality – was rarely considered. People called me by name sometimes but thy always meant 'Captain America,' and it was hard to hear knowing that the only people who'd ever seen me otherwise were dead.”

James stares at him, can't take his eyes off Steve, and Steve stares right back.

“But there comes a point where you have to let go,” Steve says. “There's never been any sense asking if I'd go back given the choice, because I don't have the choice. It's not possible. I could spend hours daydreaming about the people I've lost, writing books about what I'd do if I went back, how life might have been different if I hadn't done what I did. But that way lies ruin. Besides, I couldn't go back.”

James cocks his head.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“I'm forty-one,” he answers. “And I know times have changed – medicines, treatments, technologies have changed. Not only would I have to keep secrets it would be impossible to keep, I had a dicky heart. My life expectancy was about twenty-five.”

James feels his stomach drop so hard he thinks he might actually hear it – Steve Rogers got the serum at about twenty-five, so all James' history books said.

Steve evidently sees his shock.

“It's alright,” he says. “People have been trying to deactivate the serum for years – we've got a contingency plan even if they do succeed. Baseline prescription glasses, hearing aids, blood transfusions and the various meds I'd need to stay breathing.”

“Jesus,” James whispers, and Steve shakes his head. 

“Don't fret,” he says – it's not a standard phrase and part of James wonders where he got it. “It's a precaution we take because we have the liberty to do so. We've all got contingency plans.”

“Yeah, but yours...” James murmurs.

“Sweetheart,” Steve says, walks over and presses a kiss to James' forehead. 

“I'd still date you,” James says, because he feels like Steve's skirting around it. “I would, I'd still want you, you know? You're- It's not just because- I mean, you're hot but...”

Steve laughs, soft and slow as he pulls away, cups James' face in his palm, stroking his thumb along James' cheekbone.

“That's very sweet of you,” he murmurs. 

“We could get you those glasses,” James says. “You know, those ones that correct color-blindness?”

Steve smiles softly, eyes dancing. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, looking at James as though he's the best thing he's ever seen. “I'd miss red.”

“You can't see red?” James asks, and then considers kicking himself.

“My friend kept trying to explain it,” he says. “He'd tell me it was like anger or like the kind of love you could die from and I just sorta nodded and went with it. He'd say lipstick or kisses and I'd just take his word for it.”

James doesn't push him for more when he stops – Steve will have seen an awful lot of red in his lifetime.

“Do they have the medication here?” James asks, and Steve's eyebrows raise.

“Yes,” he says. “And there are some at secure facilities and in secure places. I know about them, so do my team. What are you picturing?”

James chews his lower lip for a moment, shrugs.

“I just don't want...” he says, and then he looks away. 

It's too soon for him to say shit like the shit he's thinking so he settles instead for,

“I don't want anything to happen to you,” and tries to leave it at that.

“Well, things are going to happen to me,” Steve tells him. “Nature of the job, doll, but I have the best backup and I receive the best medical attention.”

“I know,” James tells him. “I know that rationally. It's just...”

But he trails off. 

He's started on a stupid path and he's hoping Steve won't ask him to continue. And he _kind of_ gets what he wants – Steve doesn't ask. He just waits.

“I couldn't work while you were in Portugal,” James says eventually. “All the medical staff run by our stations, and then the jet came back and the news said you...”

Steve folds James into his arms.

“While I can completely understand your not wanting to imagine the truly ridiculous scenarios I've managed to find myself in over the years,” he murmurs, “I'd like you to remember that the Avengers and I know at this point that most of the things guaranteed to end a human life just don't take with me.”

Part of James wants to know. He wants to know just how many times Steve Rogers has walked away unscathed from something that would have destroyed anyone else. But the other part wants nothing to do with that knowledge at all.

“I wanted to come see you,” James says into Steve's shoulder. 

~

Steve lifts his hand to the back of James' head, strokes his hair softly. Part of him warms to hear it – James really _did_ care. He knew, of course, but there's something wonderful about hearing it.

“If there's a next time,” Steve says, “Jarvis will let you, regardless of what you leave to come to me. Do you understand? I don't care if you're in an actual board meeting-”

James laughs, albeit a little unsteadily.

“I was really scared after Portugal,” he says.

Steve turns his head and presses a kiss to James' temple before he lets go just enough to grasp James' shoulders.

“It's okay,” he says. “We'll sort you out.” He turns to continue with his plan to make coffee. “Jarvis, can you add James to my whitelist? That way you can come and go as you please, you can get in if I'm not here, and you can get up to see me if you need to.”

And Jarvis obliges. But it's at this point that Steve's whole world zeroes in on a single point of white-hot emotion, and he doesn't know yet that it's anger, only that it feels like his heart has been pierced through.

 _“Creating additional whitelist profile, authorization Commander Rogers, Steven Grant,_ ” Jarvis answers, _“for the addition of Engineer Barnes,”_

Steve hears it but doesn't quite believe it, thinks partly that his brain just remembers hearing each of the syllables, thinks partly that perhaps his soul is confused,

_”James,”_

Perhaps his heart still expects to hear those words in that order, his consciousness doesn't understand that there can be other names but these,

_Buchanan.”_

All he hears after that is white noise.

Ringing in his ears.

“James,” he says, and he turns slowly simply because he can't make his body go any faster – it's like his feet have been glued to the floor, like his limbs are full of lead, like he's to wade through molasses before he can face him, the words like ground glass in his throat, “Buchanan Barnes?”

James' expression is shocked, his skin pale, and Steve tries to ask him again, tries to ask if he misheard but his voice is rough because it hurts to speak, it hurts to hold himself together when he wants to shatter into pieces, and his blood roars in his ears as he looks at James, _eyes on target._

“Steve,” James says, “wait a second-”

“Who are you?”

“What? It's me, it's just me,” James says, and he looks anxious but Steve knows better than to trust someone because of age, knows better than to let crocodile tears change his mind. 

“You're working in the building I work in, you could be a goddamn _clone_ of him at your age- Are you related to him? Is that what this is? Or did someone put you here?”

James shakes his head while Steve tries to piece the bits of his reality back together – Steve hardly sees him. 

He's too busy seeing someone else.

“Stark found me at Cornell, _you_ picked _me_ up!”

Steve shakes his head, tries to get the ringing out of his ears. 

“Who are you?” he says again.

“1942 in Nazi occupied Metz, you and the Howling Commandos rescued a small team of soldiers and one of 'em was my grandpa,” James says, and Steve shakes his head but James doesn't stop. “I'm named after your friend and I'm _sorry_ I didn't tell you but 'I-”

“Why the hell are _you_ named after him if it was your Gramps we rescued, huh?” 

James just stares at him and, for a long few moments, there's nothing but silence.

“'Cause my father's name is Steve,” he says. “My dad's name's Steven Roger Barnes after you, my Uncle Grant's named for you and all, Grant Roger Barnes, and then they ran out of your names so my Dad called me James Buchanan Barnes 'cause he an' I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.”

“I don't believe you,” Steve says.

“Gramps used to tell the story every thanksgiving,” James says instead. “Every year, 'I'm thankful for Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes-' ”

“Stop _saying_ that,” Steve says, shakes his head to get the echo of it out of his ears.

“He said neither of you believed it, how they looked so similar, how there could be two of 'em and both called Barnes, he said you-”

Steve goes cold. 

“-said 'Christ there's two of you idiots' and your friend said-”

 _Muddy ground and air that smelled of grass after rain, crumbling farmhouses of big bits of stone, sheep and cow shit and fingers that were cold and boots that were soaked through and trudging steps on uneven roads and Bucky's unshaven face with his rolled up sleeves and the ghost of his smile and God_ -

Steve remembers.

Remembers what comes next, too.

 _Don't,_ Steve tries to say, panic engulfing him like a wave, like he's been dropped in a deep, dark well of it – he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to hear a phrase he last heard in Bucky's voice, doesn't want to hear those words from a mouth with such a similar shape, a voice with such a similar cadence, _don't!_ but his voice won't work-

“ -'Stevie, don't you know a good thing when you see one? Only thing better'n a Barnes is two Barneses.' ”

Steve turns away so fast he almost falls, hands halfway up to his ears before he recognises it's too late for that.

His hands are shaking, feels like his _lungs_ are shaking, his heart hasn't felt this overtaxed in years.

“And you said 'try telling your poor, sweet -' ”

But Steve already knows what he said, leaning heavily on the back of the couch as he tries not to fall over.

“ 'Your poor, sweet mother,' ” Steve whispers, a rush of unsteady breath, and then he's gulping for more, it's been so long since this happened. “I said 'try telling your'- ”

He presses his hand over his eyes.

He can hear Bucky's voice in his head, over and over, _don't you know a good thing when you see one, Stevie,_ and couldn't he hold onto a good thing when he had one and he feels dizzy, feels like his skin is going to burst or his chest is going to crack open.

“I remember,” he whispers but there's silence, nothing happens, the world doesn't end and Bucky doesn't come back and Steve's just standing in his living room at forty-one years old with his heart trying to squeeze itself to death.

Steve laughs, incredulous, but it's thick and wet and sticks in his throat.

“I'm, I didn't mean it to go on this long,” James says, _James_ says, but Steve... “I should have told you but I-”

The silence hangs between them.

“I was scared you...would...”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

James must have been scared he'd do exactly this, but Steve also doesn't know what the hell to do next, all he can think about is Bucky and he's starting to spiral, he can feel it.

“Jarvis, can you confirm?” he rasps.

_“According to birth and death record for the State of New York and the information collected by the Stark Industries' extensive background searches, Mr Barnes' information is correct. James Buchanan Barnes, born to Steven Roger Barnes and Anthea Patricia Barnes nee Jackson, born to William Cole Barnes and Barbara Cynthia Barnes nee Gregory, and Patrick John Jackson and Phyllis May Jackson nee Hearn respectively.”_

Steve takes his hand down from his eyes.

“James, I need to...” he says, and he turns around, looks at the front door. “I need a while.”

“I can go,” James says.

“I don't want you to go,” Steve answers, because it's the truth. “But I need...I'll come back.”

And then he leaves because he needs to move, he needs to be away.

James doesn't say anything and Steve wouldn't have heard him anyway.

***

Sam's asleep because it's dumbass-o'clock in the morning, and the ringtone lets him know it's Steve, otherwise he wouldn't even bother. He was having a nice dream about donuts and flying and would never admit it for a million bucks but was still enjoying the stupid dream.

“Dammit, man,” he says in a voice like gravel, answering because it's Steve and _only_ because it's Steve, and he wouldn't call for no reason – but it had better be a good one. “Only thing worse than your timing is your fashion sense.”

For a long few seconds, there's complete silence on the other end of the line, and Sam wonders for a moment if he's been butt-dialed, like if the phone fell into bed with Steve. Then he wonders if Steve's been captured by someone and he needs to get a lock on. But then Steve's voice says,

 _“Sam,”_ and Sam knows there's something wrong immediately just from the way he says it. 

Sam pushes himself to sit upright, reaches for the beside lamp because Steve's voice doesn't sound like this – hasn't sounded like this for a long time and reminds him of the last time it did, which is not an occasion Sam wants for Steve to have to go through again.

“Alright, man, you got me,” he says, as soothingly as he can, “what's happened?”

Steve's breathing's a little funny and he's not speaking at all, which is unusual for him these days, but what's more, Sam can hear fast-moving air, like wind or as though Steve's on top of a high building.

“Steve,” Sam says, eyebrows pinching together, “where are you?”

As soon as he's asked, he dreads the answer, half because he wants to know and half because he's not sure Steve will tell him, not sure what Steve not telling him would mean, not sure if he should run a trace on Steve's phone. But Steve scoffs an unsteady laugh that sounds fragile.

 _“I'm on top of the tower to get outside,”_ he says. _“I needed air, I...”_

“Steve,” Sam says over the sudden swooping sensation in his stomach – the top of the tower is freaking _high_ , as in it is a _long_ way down. “Can you tell me-”

_“For God's sake, Sam, I know where I am and what year it is, I didn't call you because I'm dissociating and I'm not gonna fucking jump, I called you because...”_

Sam waits. Any other time he'd goad, make fun, say 'becaaaause..?' in an annoyingly impatient tone of voice, but Steve doesn't sound like he's in any kind of mood to appreciate that now.

 _“Sam I'm seeing someone,”_ he says, and Sam...blinks.

“Uh, okay?” he says, as in, you woke me at dumbass-o'clock to tell me that?

 _“No, I...”_ Steve says, and he sounds unsure and unhappy about all of it. _“Sam, I'm seeing a kid who's half my age but super-smart and we've spent a couple weekends together and he-”_ Steve actually chokes on his words, Sam hears him. _“Sam, you know I've got a type.”_

“Do you mean charming and suave or do you mean brown hair and a nice smile?”

 _“I-I mean,”_ Steve says, and Sam gets a little more of the picture.

“You mean both,” he says, and Sam knows what that means.

Cool-headed, brown hair, a knowing smile and a sharp wit – Steve's dated a few different types, but Sam knows what his default setting is. Knows who. 

“Is he cute?” Sam asks because that's what you're supposed to ask in these situations.

 _“Sam, I wanted to tell you in person,”_ he says, sounding pained, and Sam shrugs. 

Even if it stings a little, and Sam would never admit that it might, he prefers to be told than to wait for a face to face. But that still doesn't explain what Steve's doing calling him at this time of night.

“Don't worry about it, man, what's the issue?” he asks, and that seems harder for Steve.

He hears Steve's throat click, hears the raspy intake of breath. Steve doesn't usually sound this at sea – hasn't for a long time.

 _“He's not just similar, Sam, he could be his_ son-”

“Jesus, Steve-”

That's such a bad idea.

 _“He's_ not _his son but he looks so_ similar _and he- Sam, his name is James-”_

“Oh,” Sam says, 'cause that's _really_ not ideal – like you-should-be-calling-your-therapist-instead not ideal - but it turns out Steve wasn't even done then either, he just tripped over himself again.

 _“-Buchanan Barnes,”_ he finishes, and Sam feels his mouth drop open.

“His,” he says. “Seriously?”

Steve makes a sound that suggests he's finding it hard to get oxygen, hard to stay on his feet and contain his panic, and Sam shakes his head. They're going to talk about this, but now's not the time.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Breathe.”

~

“Becca,” James says into the phone, “I fucked up.”

He knows he sounds like he's crying – he isn't crying yet but he might be soon.

 _“Bucky, what happened?”_ she says, and he feels a stab of guilt as she calls him by the childhood nickname that doesn't belong to him. _“Are you hurt, are you okay?”_

He shakes his head, covers his eyes with his hand.

“I'm at my boyfriend's,” he says, and there's a painfully long silence that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck with the absence of sound, before she speaks with a tone of voice that's completely different.

_“Has he hurt you?”_

God, he sometimes wonders what he did to deserve her. Especially now when she's being so good to him and he's been so terrible to Steve.

“No,” James says, but she asks again before he can continue.

_“Bucky, you tell me right now, has he hurt you?”_

“No, Becca!” he says, and yeah, he's crying all right, shit. “No, God, _I_ hurt _him._ And I...”

God, he can't even tell her. Can he? 

No, God no. He might never tell her at this rate – 'that guy I was keeping from you was the sweetest guy and in the world and both our favourite Avenger and I've managed to fuck it up already' _God_ he never should have said yes in the elevator the second time. He shouldn't have come for a date, shouldn't have shared a bed and a shower and all those meals and-

 _“Bucky, who the hell is this guy?”_ she says, and he shakes his head though she can't see it because it's like the catch twenty-two of his life, it's like the secret he can't force past his lips.

“I can't tell you,” he says, and she starts to interrupt but he can feel his face creasing up. “No, Becca, I can't, because it's fucking _worse now –_ I think I love him and I might never see him again and I can't even-”

He has to stop to breathe, sniffs loudly as he scrubs the back of his hand over his nose. 

“I can't even say I'm sorry, Jesus Christ, Becca.”

 _“What did you do?”_ she says, and it's not an accusation – if anything, it's a commiseration - but it feels just as bad.

“I can't tell you that either,” he says, wanting to talk to her, wanting to tell her everything and knowing he can't say a thing. “If I tell you what upset him, you'll know who it is.”

 _“What the fuck-”_ she starts but he cuts her off.

“It's like if he didn't tell me he was Republican, except worse.”

_“Oh my God, is he Republican!?”_

“No! But i-it's like that. Except I'd be the Republican.”

 _“Bucky, unless you're secretly a Nazi,”_ and James snorts because Becca has no idea how coincidental her statement is considering the source of James' troubles, _“you said he's a good guy. He likes you, right? It's not just a piece on the side thing?”_

“No,” James says. “I mean, yeah, he likes me.”

_“Well then....God, I don't know, Bucky. I mean, I don't know what happened but if you're sorry and you're still at his-”_

“He left,” James says, and his stomach sinks even as he says it, panic rising. The pause that follows tells him she's working overtime to reassure him now, tells him that, yeah, that's pretty bad, that's worse than she thought.

 _“Did he tell you to leave?”_ she asks eventually, sounding more like their mother than he thinks he's ever heard her sound.

“No, he said stay and he'd come back but I...God, what if he changes his mind?”

She sighs heavily.

_“Bucky, you said he was a good guy. He sounded like a good guy. He'll come back, you just have to wait.”_

“And what if he tells me to leave?” he says, stomach twisting at the thought of it, at the idea of such a kind face sneering at him or, worse, of Steve just asking him politely to go – Steve looked so pale, so shaken, so unlike the man James is used to tucking himself up against for warmth and safety. 

James' only seen one or two paparazzi pictures of him looking like that, and now he's never going to forget seeing it up close, especially knowing he's the one who caused it.

_“You just need to talk to him. If he really cares, he'll listen.”_

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says, because that's it, isn't it?

Maybe James has blown it, but the thing he fears about this most of all is exactly that – if Steve cares enough, he'll listen.

If he doesn't, he won't.

~

“So you figured the best thing to do was take him back to yours?” Sam says, because this is the second time Steve's talking Sam through their Meet-Cute story, now that he's a little more able to tell it, but Sam's still a little surprised at Steve's _carpe diem_ attitude on this particular subject – he's not exactly into casual sex.

Now, though, Steve has...not exactly 'calmed down' because he's never been someone to panic. But he's not as upset now, a little more able to process and handle new information.

 _“You only live once,”_ Steve says, and Sam snorts.

“Don't you YOLO me, you bastard, don't you know nobody says that any more?” 

_“Golly, gee whiz, mister, I ain't never heard a-”_

“I'm hanging up,” Sam says, “goodbye.”

And Steve doesn't laugh, but there's a noise he makes that would definitely be a laugh if he weren't so shaky. Sam can hear how unnerved he was, can hear how badly this has affected him, but the decisions Steve makes are ultimately his own, and Sam's not only ready to remind him of that, he's also able to see past unpleasant shock, when he's not the one experiencing the brunt of it, in order to find the rationality.

“But I mean, I trust you,” Sam says. “And it's not like you looked up all the kids named after him and chose the youngest one that looked like him the most. You know?”

Which is true. It's not something Sam even thought about, either – it's just a truth that was waiting there. It's weird, obviously, and a little...weird in a bigger sense. In a more the-universe-is-trying-to-tell-you-something way. But it's not Steve's fault that it happened to him.

 _“Yeah,”_ Steve says. _“But it feels...I don't know, like I'm...”_

“They look similar,” Sam says. “You're attracted to a certain type. So this thing, it's gonna throw you sometimes anyway, this is just...I mean, okay, it's not ideal and it's big as far as you're concerned. You're...literally the worst person who could have found this out by accident, but it's nobody's _fault._ You didn't know, he didn't tell you – you just gotta figure out if he meant to keep it from you.”

_“Well even then, it's me, for God's sakes. It'd be like telling me your pops named you Peggy Carter, you know?”_

“I mean, I know I've got the hips for it?” Sam says.

 _“You know what I mean,”_ Steve answers, without missing a beat, thank God, so at least he's recovering. _“I wouldn't be surprised if he'd kept it from me on purpose, but I don't think he did. I just....don't think it came up.”_

Sam tilts his head.

“Well, you're gonna be a better judge of that than I am,” he says. “I mean, you haven't talked to him about why he caught your eye, either, have you?”

The silence on the other end of the phone is all the answer he needs.

 _“I've never even thought of it while we're together,”_ Steve says. 

“Well there you go,” Sam tells him. “So hang up with me, take a few more breaths of fresh, clean, central Manhattan pollution, and go talk to the guy. And then decide when I get to meet him.”

Steve actually does chuckle a little this time.

 _“Sure,”_ he says. _“You can maybe see him when you come down for duty this weekend, I'll talk to him about it. And thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.”_

“Hey, I made you a promise,” he says. “All for one, right? So you're welcome, asshole. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta get back to a dream I was having about manly shit like bombs and women.”

_“I mean it, Sam. I don't know what I'd have done-”_

“Get off the line!”

 _“Aw, sugar,”_ Steve says. _“You hang up first.”_

Sam scoffs and does.

He doesn't need to be there to know that, back in Manhattan, Steve laughs.

~

Now James has gotten over the initial panic (or, rather, started ignoring it as best he can until Steve comes back, if Steve comes back, because there's nothing else he can do,) Becca's just letting him talk about it.

He must have been rambling for a good ten minutes or so, and she doesn't interrupt once. She makes all the right noises and asks all the right questions and James...

“God, his _face_ , Becca, I'll never forget his face for as long as I live. He looked like....I don't even know, I've never seen anybody make a face like that.”

More importantly, he's never made anybody make a face like that. Steve looked...

He's not even sure about the word for it. There's a weird beep to James' left that he isn't sure he's heard, but he looks over to find the source once he hears it a second time.

In blue glowing text, in midair, the words,

**'The Commander has finished his telephone call and is currently descending in the elevator to return to this floor.'**

James' stomach drops all over again, tears threaten to well, his throat tightens.

“Listen, Becca, I gotta go, he's...He's coming back, he'll be in any second. But thanks.”

 _“Welcome, butthead - go, go!”_ she says and, as he's lowering the phone to end the call, he hears, _“but text me!”_

And he's just putting the phone back in his pocket and getting to his feet when the door opens.

Steve looks...probably not as bad as James does. James would bet he looks red-eyed and blotchy but Steve's got color in him again, and his mouth twists as he looks straight at James.

“Aw, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low, and James sniffs, looks away. 

If Steve's going to kick him out, he might as well be on his feet to start with. 

But Steve doesn't kick him out, Steve comes right up to him, tucks his cool fingers under James' chin and tilts his head up. James knows he looks sullen – he doesn't want Steve to see him – but Steve doesn't examine his face, and James is confused for a moment until Steve presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I'm sorry, honey,” he says, and folds James into his arms.

He's cold but warming and it takes a second or two to register, but then James shakes his head against Steve's shoulder.

“What?” he rasps. “No, _I'm_ \- I should have _told_ you-”

“And I should have asked,” Steve says. “Besides which, there are things I maybe should have told you, too, so it's...”

He holds James tighter, and James just holds onto him, shoves his face into Steve's shoulder and tries to quell the shaking. That was....not as bad as he'd expected.

Steve kisses the top of his head, his temple, shoves his face against James. James thinks he might even have bent his knees a little, so James can get a hug without having to stretch.

“I think there's a couple things we need to talk about,” he says, his breath warm on James' neck. “I think, accidentally, we haven't really been as honest with each other as we could have been.”

James doesn't mean to sob, but it happens anyway, and Steve says,

“Ohh, sweetheart, it's alright,” in a voice as low as it is gentle, and holds him tighter as he rubs James' back.

“I'm sorry,” James says past gulping breaths. “I'm sorry.”

And he's sorry for everything, really – he's sorry he didn't tell Steve what his full name was, he's sorry Steve has to speak to certain people to help him get through his problems, he's sorry Steve's problems reached that point, sorry he had them in the first place, his chest aches for the sad smile Steve gives him sometimes but, on top of all of that,

“I was,” he says, and 'so scared,' he doesn't, but Steve, of course, understands anyway, understands what James thought he'd lost.

“I know. Come on,” he says. “Sit down on the couch, I'll fetch a blanket, get us a drink. All right?”

James nods, swipes his hand over his face again when they part, hiccoughing a little, but he turns to put himself on the couch. Steve watches him settle and then walks away from him down the corridor.

James takes the few seconds he's got to text Becca.

_Gna tlk it thru, not bn kckd out. He's bn rly sweet abt it. Call u tmro xx_

He feels his phone vibrate as she texts him back but he knows it'll only be an acknowledgement, and Steve is coming back by then. He has in his hands a huge, thick blanket that _looks_ warm, let alone feels it. He comes to stand in front of James.

“Get comfy,” he says, “and I'll come sit with you in a minute.”

James arranges himself so that he's relatively fine, and then Steve covers him with the blanket. Maybe it's because he was worried or sad, or maybe it's just because of how nice a blanket it is, but he wants to wrap himself in it immediately.

He doesn't – he's not sure he should. In fact, he can't remember feeling as anxious about being in Steve's presence since the first time he came up to the suite.

Steve doesn't take long to make them something – he makes hot chocolate and sets both mugs on the coffee table before he gets under the blanket next to James. Then he reclines the seat and waits for James to pick up his mug before encouraging him closer, lying back with James tucked up against him under his arm. He's warmer now – he must have been outside before.

“All right,” he says softly. “I'll go first. You look exactly like the man you were named after. There aren't too many good-quality photographs of him around so you may not realize how like him you look but...You could be his _son_ , and that's probably what got my attention in the first place. It's not why I'm seeing you now – I know more about you, I care more about the person you are. But that's why you caught my eye and that's why I got so aggressive so fast before. I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry.”

James lets this sink in for a couple of seconds, and then he asks a question that he doesn't even think about before it comes tumbling out of his mouth. The only thing more surprising than hearing his own voice ask is the speed with which Steve answers.

“Did you love him?”

“Yes,” Steve says, almost before James has finished speaking. “More than anything. And part of me always will.” 

James nods, rests his head on Steve's chest.

“My dad named my sister Rebecca,” he says. “Because he's insane.”

Steve heaves a sigh – James knows because he's lifted up quite a ways by the movement.

“It's...a nice tribute to them,” Steve says, “especially given that I wasn't even in this century when you were born. Even if I had been, your father couldn't know we'd ever meet, let alone date.”

“Yeah,” James says. “It hasn't always been great. I don't like being called Bucky, full disclosure.”

“Well full disclosure,” Steve says, “I wouldn't much like calling you it either.”

“My dad'll want to meet you,” James says, and Steve nods.

“My friends will want to meet you, too. Would you like to meet Captain America next week?”

James turns his head on Steve's chest enough to look up at him if he strains his eyes.

“Captain America?” he says. “Seriously?”

Steve nods.

“You know after that breakdown I had a few years back I went on TV and did those ads about having a support network?”

“Yeah?” James says, because everyone does.

“Well back then, the Falcon was mine, plus a couple other people I trust.”

James thinks on this for a few moments.

“Those friends you told about me?” he asks.

Steve nods, strokes his hand up and down James' back once or twice.

“Yeah,” he says, and then he squints, and James turns his head back again. “I'm trying to think if there's anything I haven't told you that I should'a. Anything you _want_ to know?”

James considers the question for a while, but all his brain is really doing is replaying the afternoon over and over.

“Can I think about it?” he asks.

“Of course,” Steve says. “Is there anything else vital you feel _I_ need to know?”

James shakes his head.

“My,” he says. “Birthday's almost the same. March eleventh. I mean, I used to...” His throat goes dry. “Had a friend called Stephanie when I was little,” he says. “We'd do themed parties. She'd be...you, and I was...”

Steve huffs a laugh.

“Well good. It's an obligation at that point – sacrilege if you don't, right? Like your parents calling you Raphael but you don't own a red bandana and sai.”

“I'm sorry, did you just-”

“Of course not,” Steve says. “How would I even know. But aside from birthday parties and suspiciously named sisters-”

“I'll tell her you said that,” James says, testing the waters a little, and Steve laughs, soft and quiet.

“I should hope so,” he says. “There's nothing else?”

“I can't think of anything,” James says. “But I'll tell you if I do.”

Steve's hand moves up and down his back again.

“That's all I ask, sweetheart,” he says.

For a while, James drinks his hot chocolate in silence, enjoying the warmth of Steve's body and the relief of knowing he still gets to experience it, enjoying the blanket and the drink, thankful to still be in Steve's living room. But his mind drifts – it does that a lot – and he finds himself wondering things that his father can't answer and museums aren't interested in and textbooks don't have the space for.

Besides which, there's only one person left who has the first hand experience.

“If it's okay,” James says, “I mean, if you're not...you don't have to but, could you...”

Steve waits a few moments, and then presses his mouth to the top of James' head.

“Mmm?”

James chews his lip but he's started now so he might as well finish.

“Could you tell me about him?”

Steve gives another one of those long sighs, squeezes James a little closer.

“I would love to,” he says.


End file.
